


Take a Load for Free

by Aisalynn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Tag, Gen, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-16
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-21 03:14:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4812830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aisalynn/pseuds/Aisalynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a Thursday night when Dean took the Impala and disappeared. There was no warning, just an excuse for more bandages and a half exasperated relax before Sam was suddenly listening to the roar of the car as it pulled out from it’s parking space, running out of the room just in time to see the red of it’s headlights getting increasingly smaller until Dean finally turned left and they disappeared behind the neon Green Valley Motel sign.</p>
<p>Coda to 5x16 and 5x17.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take a Load for Free

**Author's Note:**

> Another old piece. Started after 5x16 aired and finished after 5x17.

It was a Thursday when Bobby gave it to him, in November. They were having Thanksgiving at his house and Sam was young enough that it didn’t matter that their meal ( _two family size buckets of KFC, with too dry biscuits and mashed potatoes and coleslaw that came packed in tiny, Styrofoam tubs_ ) wasn’t exactly traditional, young enough that he didn’t mind that the only dessert was ice cream dug out from the back of Bobby’s freezer _(vanilla--even though both Dean and Sam preferred chocolate--with the edges and top so thick and hard from being in there so long that it had to be peeled off before they could eat any of it)_ and he didn’t understand why, when Dean piped up a hopeful request for pie, that Bobby had immediately shot it down in a rough, angry voice, his expression tight, shoulders rigid.

He didn’t understand a lot of things, back then. 

When they finished eating Dean had sat down beside Dad on the couch, happy to stare mindlessly at the football game on the television even though John was slumped down against the cushions, eyes closed and face slack with sleep, one hand still curled around the beer he’d been drinking with his meal. 

Sam had been sitting by the window, frowning. 

Before Sam’s class had let out for Thanksgiving break his teacher had reminded them about the Secret Santa gift shop that was going to be available in the library, where each class would go down at a certain time to buy little gifts and presents for their family. Sam was frowning out at the stack of cars seen through the grimy window because he didn’t have any money, and he couldn’t ask Dad, because how could it be a _real_ present if Dad paid for it? 

He’d told Bobby about his problem and the man had huffed and pulled Sam out of his chair, one calloused hand on his shoulder to gently guide him out of the room. “I think we can find something better than those cheap trinkets,” he muttered. 

They’d gone through three huge boxes of junk, digging through musty old books and talismans, stiff leather pouches full of jagged stones and crystals, a few sharp knives that Bobby had immediately taken from Sam, their handle’s tarnished and encrusted with something dark and gritty, before Sam had found it. 

It was hanging half out of a book, like it was marking the page. The black cord was grey with dust and the pendant attached to it was a dull gold, dark in places where the metal was worn and old. “It’s _perfect,_ ” he breathed as he pulled it out of the box, turning the pendant in his palm and running his fingers down it’s face. 

Bobby had looked down at it, a small doubtful frown on his lips. “You sure, son?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah. Dad’ll like it, don’t you think Uncle Bobby?” he had asked, anxiously looking up at the older man through his bangs. 

Bobby’s doubtful expression cleared. “Sure, kiddo. He’s going to love it.” He reached down to pat Sam on the shoulder and Sam had beamed at him, tucking the necklace into his pocket. “What about Dean? Are you going to get something for him to?”

Sam shook his head. “Nah, Dean’s gonna get something from Santa,” he smirked a little at the word, well aware that Santa was just another term for Dad, even if his dad still liked to pretend that Sam believed in jolly old St. Nick. “But Dad has no one else to get him presents. I don’t think it’s fair.” 

Bobby had frowned again, and Sam didn’t understand why, but before he could ask Bobby was steering him out of the study and back into the living room, that same calloused hand curled protectively around his shoulder.

He’d bounded over to the couch the minute they’d entered the room, jumping on it and squeezing himself between Dean and Dad. Dean had scowled at him but shifted over to make room and Sam tucked himself closer to Dad, the motions shaking him awake. Dad had blinked blearily down at him before smiling and wrapping one arm around Sam’s shoulders, pulling him even closer against him. “Have a good Thanksgiving, Sammy?” he asked, voice still rough with sleep, eyes still lined from exhaustion. 

Sam had grinned up at him. “Yeah, Dad,” he’d said, hand tracing lightly over the pendant in his pocket, “I did.”

 

***

 

It was a Thursday night when Dean took the Impala and disappeared. There was no warning, just an excuse for more bandages and a half exasperated _relax_ before Sam was suddenly listening to the roar of the car as it pulled out from it’s parking space, running out of the room just in time to see the red of it’s headlights getting increasingly smaller until Dean finally turned left and they disappeared behind the neon _Green Valley Motel_ sign. 

Sam tried to tell himself that it wasn’t the first time Dean had taken off after a particularly taxing hunt, or even a taxing conversation, and clung to the small comfort that it probably wouldn’t be the last. It had better not be the last.

But Dean didn’t come back. 

Three days later Sam got a call from Bobby. The Impala was found on the side of the road, three miles from Bobby’s house, empty, with the keys still in the ignition. Sam immediately called Cas to zap them over to the salvage yard.

It was empty, just like Bobby had said. No Dean, no note, no hint as to where he could be, or if he was okay, or where he had taken the Impala in the three days he’d been missing. Worry and fear clawed at Sam’s gut as he pulled himself out from searching the back seat, leaning his forearms against the top of the car and burying his fingers in his hair. He stared hard at the metal of the car, as if it could tell him all the answers he so desperately needed, but the black paint--sleek and well polished and so lovingly cared for, even after Dean stopped caring for himself--merely reflected back Sam’s own distress: the frown on his lips, the worried crease between his eyes.

“Dean loves this car,” he muttered. “He would never just leave it on the side of the road for anyone to find.”

“Sam,” Castiel said softly. His voice was gentle, and careful in a way he normally wasn’t. Sam stared at him from across the car and had to quash his sudden urge to immediately look down again, not wanting to see the grave line of Castiel’s mouth, the concerned furrow of his brows over sad blue eyes, didn’t want to admit to what it meant. “Angels don’t need to drive, Sam.” 

Cas’s voice was still oddly gentle, sorrowful and Sam had time to vaguely wonder when Cas had become human enough to adopt the practice of carefully breaking bad news to someone before he was closing his eyes and pressing his forehead to the warm metal of the Impala, shuddering and curling his hands harshly into the glass of the half opened window, hoping the pain of it would ground him, or wake him. Something. Anything. 

Anything to stop this from happening, from being real. 

The April sun was hot on his back and neck, more summer than spring, and he focused on that as he tried to breathe, in and out, deep and controlled. He felt highly aware of Cas’s eyes on him, of Bobby waiting back at the house, knew there were things to be done, things to plan for, fight for, and that he didn’t have the time for this, didn’t have the time to mourn that the one thing he _swore_ would never happen, did. 

He took that time anyway.

Finally he stood up, took another deep breath and straightened his shoulders. He snatched the keys from where he’d placed them on top of the car and walked around to the back, ignoring Cas’s curious expression. He popped open the trunk and started digging through his bag, reaching inside the side pocket, fingers finding and curling around the soft, worn cord before he pulled he out. 

The amulet was familiar in his hand--the curves of the horns and the shallow dips along the ears, the deeper ones around the mouth and eyes--all of it memorized from the hour he spent polishing it years ago, happily imagining Dad’s face when he opened the poorly folded newspaper and saw it, before Sam’s faith and sense of dependency had switched from John to Dean, from father to brother. 

_Dad lied to me. I want you to have it._

_Thank you, Sam. I--I love it._

Cas’s stare lingered on the amulet as Sam put it on, eyes shrewd and knowing even when defeated, and Sam tucked it under his shirt, out of sight. The weight of the pendant was familiar too; it wasn’t the first time he’d worn it when he thought Dean was gone, but it would be the last. It had to be the last. 

He slammed the trunk shut and marched up to the driver side door, pulling it open and sliding inside. He turned to look at Cas through the open window, an offer for a ride on the tip of his tongue, but Cas just disappeared, a rustle of feathers before there was nothing, and the offer died before reaching the air. Sam swallowed, hard, and looked away.

_Angels don’t need to drive, Sam._

He started the car, hand sliding up the leather of the steering wheel before his right hand came down against his chest, fingers touching lightly on the pendant beneath his shirt. Dean had carried it for years. There was a time when he’d have been spitting and angry at just the idea of taking it off, but that time was long gone. Dean had given it up. 

That was okay. He could carry it for a while. 

Sam shifted into drive and pulled away from the car’s spot in the salvage yard, away from the house.

He could carry them both.


End file.
